


"Thanks for Nothing" --a FotE gap-filler

by julifolo



Category: Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gap Filler, Mars, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-01
Updated: 1998-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julifolo/pseuds/julifolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this July 1997, during the long hiatus between the Interrogation and the Rescue. It's a gapfiller, of sorts, for "The Face of the Enemy"; a reaction to many complaints about "unacceptable risk-taking". There are actions I think must have been taken, even if the script made no mention. (It's from a mailing list that didn't support italics.) </p><p>Warning: some swearing, non-explicit violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Thanks for Nothing" --a FotE gap-filler

"Thanks for Nothing" --a FotE gap-filler

by Julie Watkins

In this pissant dome the girl paid while the boy watched the neighbors to see if anyone was casing the purse. Chance pocketed the change and handed Pocket his beer.

It was a dingy bar in a ancient, rundown dome, too close to the cold-seep outside, structural beams left exposed. Finishing touches cost money, and if the credits had miraculously dodged Earther tax collectors to appear there were other needs more important to survival than interior decorating.

"Chance" was an alias, of course. So was "Pocket". Chance didn't know what Pocket's real name was, but she was sure his name had just as long an honor roll of charges against it on the Earther dockets.

The meeting place was _Phobos Bar & Grill_, the proprietor properly non-controversial. He had made his bribes to the earth-based regulators years before and then concentrated on not calling attention to himself. It was a rough but normally safe "neutral area" for negotiations. It was a place for sleaze, not sedition.

"Anybody got their eyes on him?" Pocket wondered.

"Not that I can see," Chance answered. "Maybe he wasn't set up. I think you can tell Neven to mark the 'all clear'." That would be three chalk dots put in the form of a triangle on the outer left door frame. Neven and his helpers were hidden outside, ready to signal if they saw troops moving in.

Pocket nodded to Troll who strolled outside to convey the message.

"Now we wait?"

"Now we wait."

"Damn foolish risk, _him_ coming down here. He's got more important work he should be doing." Clark. --But that was a name best not spoken aloud, even here.

Pocket shrugged. "It's his father." The way he said the last word indicated he agreed with her "foolish" assessment.

"You wouldn't see me lift two fingers to help my old man."

"Hum. Some people are privileged, I suppose."

They waited. So did their target.

The bar was more crowded than normal. That was unsettling, but something you lived with. With one dome after another being "liberated" by Clark's forces the domes that were still free got an increase in population, got a higher proportion of angry rebels. Sooner or later--when they got pushed into an area small enough--Clark would cut his losses, target a few domes, and let the vacuum and cold wipe out the last of them.

Rumors were spreading like fouled air, and they had the dome teetering on the edge between hope and despair. Clark had trouble coming, and maybe they would be left alive. But now "trouble" was taking a detour to take care of some personal matters. Sheridan had gotten word that his father had been captured. That was two days ago. Garibaldi said he had a lead to free him, and his story had checked out. Several different people, Chance supposed, had warned him how dangerous this was. Chance's superiors hadn't been happy, but Sheridan hadn't been in the mood for subtle warnings. He had wanted "proof". Ivanova had made her usual VoR broadcast yesterday, but parts of it had the look of being pre-recorded, and for the rest, she had spoken voice-over. She must be on her way to take over, and Sheridan had taken that waiting time to prepare the next attack and get reports. In a second conversation with Garibaldi _Phobos_ was chosen as the meeting place, and the Resistance confirmed it was safe (as far as "safe" went on Mars).

A quarter hour past his due-time, Sheridan entered the bar. He wasn't obviously in disguise; Chance missed his entrance and only recognized him because he was heading towards Garibaldi's table.

Pocket poked her and she nodded that she'd seen. They had picked a table mostly in the shadows, so the direction of their furtive glances wouldn't be noticed.

The two men started speaking, fine. There was a tension there, but she'd been told to expect that.

Then everything went wrong.

Garibaldi's hand pinned Sheridan's wrist.

Pocket started to move. Chance pushed him back into his seat. "No!" she hissed. Out of nowhere, other figures had already begun to close in. All men, not caring who saw. All with the dangerous look of hired muscle.

In that split second, the decision was made. 

Pocket and Chance were part of the Mars Resistance: Mars-born, independent. Mars-trained to take responsibility for their actions, as neither Mars nor Earther Bureaucrats would ever give them mercy.

They weren't part of EarthForce, rebelling against Clark's NightWatch and orders to attack civilian targets. They weren't part of the fleet that followed Sheridan to the Coriana system where he and Delenn had challenged gods, and ordered them to leave. Those people--whole crews--would lay down their lives for him, and had done so.

Those people weren't here.

Chance had cheered with the rest when B5 joined Orion 7 and Proxima III in declaring independence. Then they all had wondered why Sheridan had left them out to dry. 

Too little, too late there were stories about alien wars and battles in which Sheridan had involved himself, leaving his own stranded.

Sheridan had made the call. Sheridan had been warned this might be a trap. He came anyway. 

"Fool," Chance thought, as Garibaldi pressed something onto his trapped hand. Drugs. It had to be. "Fuck. Now what?" she asked.

"Do we have a choice?" Pocket's voice was bitter. He broke radio silence to send a single code to Neven. "Landslide." 

Chance exhaled slowly, agreeing with his decision. They were fucked indeed. Those outside could do as necessary, and Number One would have the news soon, though not the details; their leader was already in a bad mood, and this would triple it.

Fine. Number One had been in a bad mood about every little thing their "allies" did since Franklin returned.

In the meanwhile Chance and Pocket were trapped in their seats. There wasn't anything else they could do but watch and wait. 

Sheridan broke away from his betrayer, his supposed friend. Garibaldi didn't try to stop him; leaving that chore to the heavies. There was a whole dozen now, one of them keeping the barkeeper from calling in help. 

Pocket had made the right decision. There were too many, they couldn't stop it. Not here. 

He wasn't looking for his backup; that was good. Maybe they'd have a chance. Sheridan probably hadn't asked details, didn't "want to know" what his support staff would naturally do in the name of "checking it out" and trying to protect him when he would "come there alone". All he would have been told about was the chalk signals for "clear" or "don't enter."

There were too many heavies, and they had snuck in too easily. They had to be Earthers, or scum the Earthers hired and then brought here. It was quite a slick operation.

Garibaldi was just sitting there, watching calmly as his ambush played out. The civilians in the bar either huddled or ran away. There were enough people watching in sick fascination that it wasn't a danger for Chance to watch as well.

She watched as Sheridan was being shoved around, played with. How do _you_ like it, Mr. War Hero? How do you like it in our shoes? Our will, our life battered from us by Earther jackals. Outnumbered, outgunned. When he shoved one of the heavies through the window the rest stopped playing and began striking with brutal force. 

There was no hope, no possibility, but he fought on.

Why? Chance wondered. Why fight back? Your stupid pride? You had it all, asshole, and you pissed it away. 

The strobe lights froze the beating into disconnected images. They overlay in her mind with events from years before. There were no uniforms, no billy clubs, but this was a memory. She had seen this before. 

The Food Riots --

\--| The GROPOS knocked Niesen down. They'd recognized him as one of the protest leaders. They beat him for having the arrogance to question Earth's rule. They beat him down like they beat the whole planet.

A well-aimed punch spun Sheridan so he faced her a moment, before he fell to his knees.

I don't remember you a hero, mister, I remember you a liar.

\--| Sheridan was an EA enforcer. He had come--brazenly, without guard or weapon--to the Flinttown Council Meeting and promised them--in the name of his superiors--that EA would find an equitable solution to their concerns. He promised them they would not starve, or be killed. 

Ten days later when the word came down to crush the dissent he hadn't refused to carry those orders out. 

\--| Ten days after that, he had tried to apologize. Not than anyone listened.

The police state had been reestablished, that's all the Senate cared about. Sheridan cared that some might think he'd broken his word, but he only made more enemies. He was either a hypocrite or he was a naive fool who had honestly believed he'd "had no choice"; honestly believed that orders to use "non-lethal force" would prevent GROPOS hell bent on revenge from bashing in some Marsie skulls. Sheridan had kept his squads in line; most CO's had. But there were some, enough, who looked the other way.

\--| Funerals. Under the disdainful eyes of the GROPOS occupation. Too many people had died then. Too many people that Mars could ill afford to lose.

\--It was done. The men were backing away. 

Pocket and Chance straightened, eyes intent on Garibaldi, to see what he would do next.

Sheridan wasn't moving. Garibaldi finally stood.

One of the heavies checked his victim's pulse and reported--to Garibaldi. Pocket nodded grimly. Chance couldn't hear if the was "he's dead" or "still alive". Whichever the case, it was what Garibaldi wanted to hear. 

He wore a face of disgust as he gestured his men to take the body away. Chance wondered what kind of grudge Garibaldi carried, or what kind secret he knew--that Sheridan's supporters weren't talking about--that would make him do Clark's dirty work.

She wanted to know so she could take back the warning, but she didn't think Garibaldi would tell. She kept still, safe, in the shadows ... and watched.

What have you done, War "Hero", to make your friend so angry?

Garibaldi threw a packet to the heavy who was guarding the barkeeper. It must have been money. As the others left, the heavy that remained taunted that he might just keep the repair fund for himself. 

"Now," Pocket whispered.

He led Chance out the back door. He made no attempt to see where Sheridan was being taken, he had his own skin to protect. He didn't look for the rest of his team, they would have been long gone at his signal to run for their lives.

"Landslide" -- it was a call no one in the Resistance ever wanted to make. In those two syllables was a litany failure: "Run away; admit defeat. The plan is so utterly fucked that nothing can be done. Our only possibility of salvage is to come home alive with what we can carry. The objective is a lost cause."

Pocket and Chance did an hour of running before he felt safe enough to consider risking a check-in. He pulled out his communicator while they were on the edges of a crowd; it would have been hard to usefully triangulate. But the crowd was listening to a special announcement, rebroadcast from one of Clark's radio stations: Earthgov had apprehended Sheridan. Clark must be very nervous, Chance thought, to put the news out so quickly, wanting to dishearten the supposed approaching armada. Pocket put the communicator away, and they kept moving.

Garibaldi was in bed with Clark. There was no other explanation. Clark must have had prior knowledge that the trap/betrayal was going to be attempted, or he could not have made his triumphal announcement so quick. He might not have him in Earth custody yet, he just knew he was on the way. Anything to stop Sheridan's war machine. Damn the man.

It was another hour running before Pocket called in. Number One was furious. "This wasn't the mission you had planned," he defended himself. "We were there to help Garibaldi, not take him down. We can't take on Clark, not directly. We would have lost the whole team."

"The capture was on the news in less than an hour," Chance butted in. "Clark must have known he has a package on the way."

Pocket continued, "We were there in case Garibaldi had been set up. In case that information had been leaked to him on the chance it would draw Sheridan out. If Garibaldi and his men got attacked, then we had more muscle and an escape route." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was thick with bitterness. "Garibaldi made the kill--"

"Kill!" Chance could just barely hear the voice.

"No, I don't know if he's dead. He probably isn't." Pocket sounded disappointed. "But from the way Garibaldi acted he would have just as soon it was a murder."

"He's right," Chance put in her agreement. "I saw it. Stone cold. He didn't care at all."

Thank you, fool, she fumed silently at Sheridan. Thanks for nothing. You gave us your personal guarantee that you would support Mars Independence. You threw your freedom away believing a friend who was no friend, and risked our necks as well, risked your holy cause.

You were wrong about Garibaldi. What else are you wrong about? Where does this leave Mars?

Same as always, she concluded. On our own and shackled, and no one gives a damn.

=== end ===


End file.
